


Calling it "Cursed" is Debatable

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Kissing, M/M, kiss or die curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets cursed to kiss the love of his life or die. And not just one kiss-- kisses are a temporary cure, which leads to a lot of makeout sessions between him and his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calling it "Cursed" is Debatable

The witch’s grip on his wrist was like steel, keeping him right where she wanted. Something electric passed between them, in the totally non-sexy way, and her hands felt colder and colder— more like blocks of ice. “I know I’m going to die,” she said matter-of-factly, “when that brother of yours comes in here. But before I go, I’m going to give you a little parting gift. I can read you, Sam, I know all your biggest fears and desires. I know how fucked up your thoughts are. So, here’s your curse: you have to kiss the love of your life or you’ll die. And it’s only a temporary remedy. So not just one peck and then you’re good.”

The door slammed open, smacking against the wall, and Dean strode in, gun leveled unwaveringly at the witch’s head. “Let go of my little brother,” he growled lowly. 

She glanced at Sam, smiling slightly, a knowing look in her eyes. “Lucky for me, I know exactly who that is. Have fun with the rejection, you screwed-up fucker. It’s the least I can do,” she murmured in his ear, and pushed him away. He stumbled, instantly making his way over to Dean and standing beside him. Dean wasted no time, asked no questions. Sam covered his ears instinctively as Dean’s finger went to the trigger, and moments later she was on the ground, a pool of blood spreading slowly around her head like a screwed-up halo. Dean lowered the gun.

"Um," Sam sputtered out quickly, heart pounding almost audibly in his chest. "First of all, I’m really really sorry."

"About her?" Dean asked, already shaking his head. "Not your fault. I still can’t believe it was the freaking  _gardener_ , what a psycho.” Noticing the look in Sam’s eyes, he raised an eyebrow and asked, “What, is it something else?” He tensed. “Did she do something to you?”

Sam raised his hands palm-out in a placating manner. “Calm down. And, uh, yes, she did. But it’s not life or death! Or, uh, shit, yes it is. She… uh, well, I…”

"Sam." Dean enunciated clearly. His voice meant business, a decent mimic of the tone their father used to use. "Spit it out."

"I have to make out with you. A lot. Or else I’m going to die," Sam was blushing a burning red, and he avoided Dean’s gaze, one hand nervously sliding through his hair, over and over.

Dean’s mouth hung open slightly. “And she said me? Specifically?”

Sam’s faced seemed to get impossibly redder, and he looked down at the floor, shuffling his feet as he was unable to keep still. “Um, yeah. Yes.”

Dean slid his revolver into the waistband of his jeans and leaned against the wall, puffing his cheeks out and exhaling out air. He looked at Sam helplessly. “Do you know how long we’ve got until you start…?” he flailed his arms about, somehow meaning to gesture _die from lack of kissing your brother._

Shit.

Sam shrugged, and he tried to look Dean in the eye, but found his gaze kept inexplicably going slightly lower. “I don’t know,” he said, voice adopting a strange, higher-pitched quality. He swallowed. “But, I. Um,”

"Oh." Dean said. He looked at Sam’s eyes, noticed their trajectory. " _Oh_ ,”

'Furiously' wasn't the adverb Dean usually associated with blushing, or at least not Sam's brand of blushing, which always stemmed from Dean embarrassing the shit out of him somehow, as was his duty as the elder brother. But now, it was too applicable. He also felt the overwhelming urge to help Sam, to make him feel better. Things could've been worse, right? He could've walked in on Sam dead on the floor. He shook the thought out of his mind and focused on the matter at hand. 

"Hey, it’s okay," he said immediately, voice slow and quiet. "At least she gave you probably the most attractive person you’ve ever met as your target, right?" he tried to grin cockily, but it felt short.

“ _Probably_  is correct,” Sam joked, and Dean relaxed, even though Sam’s voice was still soft and shaky. 

"Say that again and I won’t kiss you," Dean said, meaning to lighten the mood but Sam paled. He changed tactics. "Let’s just go home," he suggested, "research. And if we can’t find anything, I’m okay with this, I really am. I prefer this a whole lot more than some of the bloodier alternatives, you hear me? Don’t freak out. We’re good,"

Sam finally,  _finally_  looked up at him and nodded, smiling thinly. 

Dean turned on his heel and left, comforted by the fact that Sam followed immediately after. With each step, Dean’s heart seemed to sink lower in his chest. He had always wondered, had always secretly pondered late at night as he watched Sam sleep in the other bed, if Sam felt the same way. Obviously by how mortified Sam was acting over the whole ordeal- it wasn’t that big of a problem, was it?- he  _didn’t_. Sam didn’t want him like that. And why would he? Dean was the fucked up one. Pushing through the front door, the sight of the Impala was a relief and he had to force himself to not sprint over to her. They’d work this out. They’d get back to normal, Sam oblivious and Dean burying this thing just a little bit deeper down.

—

Three hours, about a bazillion webpages, and seven heavy tomes later, Dean had absolutely fucking nothing. Sam was as far away as one could get in a sixteen-square-foot motel box, on his own bed. Dean looked over the laptop lid and saw Sam was a sickly shade of white, and staring right at Dean. Dean shut the computer and sat on his own bed across from Sam. “Look,” he began, taking a deep breath, “don’t get all hung up on this, okay? I’d fucking love to dress up like a monkey and dance in the streets if it meant you weren’t  _dying_ , for christ’s sake. This is nothing. We’re okay, right? You’re looking like shit, Sam, so stop edging around this and get on with it. Or I’ll just fucking tackle you.”

Sam’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “You’re right. Sorry, you’re right.” He scooted closer, looking up at Dean with those damn puppy-dog eyes. But, um,” he stuttered, looking left then right then left again. “How do we-“

Dean interrupted Sam by getting up, bending down, and gently tilting Sam’s chin upward, softly kissing him on the lips, a closed mouth kiss that lasted several seconds. Sam pulled back after a moment, and visibly relaxed.

"You good?" Dean half-whispered, unable to stop his hand from reaching out and tucking a stray lock of hair behind Sam’s ear.

Sam looked up at him in a way he hadn’t in  _years_ — that sort of adoring, admiring gaze he used to give Dean back when he believed his older brother could do anything. It was slightly different, in a way Dean couldn’t quite place— not quite hero-worshippy, but close. He was blushing again, but he smiled at Dean (genuinely, Dean noted) and nodded shyly. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

"Anytime," Dean replied easily, before he considered the context of the comment. Thankfully, Sam laughed and blushed. Dean stood up to give Sam space. Sam stood up, too, and for a brief moment they were face to face and only millimeters apart before Sam slid past him, making his way to the computer.

"Now that I’m not temporarily dying," he said casually, "I’ll try to research. I’ll probably  _find_  something, too.”

Dean snorted, getting back onto his bed and reclining against the pillows. He grabbed the remote from the nightstand and turned the tv on. “Yeah right. I’ll see you again in around three hours, bucko,” he teased. Because his eyes were glued on whatever movie was currently on (sounded like  _Jurassic Park II_ ), he didn’t see Sam’s eyes on him, openly wanting. 

—

A kiss before bed, a kiss in the middle of the night, and one morning kiss later, and Dean felt good. Each kiss had been the same, not very long and chaste, but after the last one Sam had complimented on his kissing (if only teenage Dean could’ve heard that!), and it seemed to be getting easier for them to kiss.

Of course, Dean didn’t want to Stockholm Syndrome Sam into liking the kisses, but he couldn’t deny that he actually liked this curse. It was for Sam’s benefit alone that he kept looking for answers— and consequently, kept finding nothing. It felt like the one book he needed, the one spell, was just out of reach. 

"Hey," Sam said, and Dean grunted, clicking through webpages. His eyes were glued to the screen as Sam padded over to him in a worn t-shirt and boxers. "Hey," he said again, louder and right next to Dean’s ear. Dean started and looked up at Sam. He opened his mouth and-

Sam kissed him. Sam kissed  _him_. He initiated it. Dean’s mind was reeling, incapable of forming complete sentences, only large amounts of exclamation marks. Not only did Sam start it, but Dean’s mouth had been open, and Sam’s lips slotted perfectly against his, Sam practically sucking on his lower lip. This wasn’t the “innocent” little kisses they had been sharing before. Sam was bent down awkwardly (damn his height), but his hand was stalwartly pressed to Dean’s cheek, keeping him there to kiss. Sam broke apart just when Dean was needing some air, and he walked away casually as if he had just done the most normal thing in the world.

"Um, I’m not complaining," Dean’s words slipped out before he could pull them back in, "but what was  _that_?”

Sam turned from where he had been at the minifridge, two beers now in hand. “Oh,” he said, blushing again, “it was an experiment. I was thinking maybe an open-mouth kiss would give me more hours in between?”

Dean had to use all of his self-control to force himself not to look disappointed. “Smart,” he told Sam shortly, and turned back to the laptop so Sam wouldn’t see the hurt on his face.  _Get a grip,_  he chastised himself,  _you knew how this was going to be from the start._

Only two and a half hours later, Dean was walking back to the computer when Sam blocked his way and whispered against his ear, “I was wrong.” Sam’s breath was hot against his skin. “The type of kiss doesn’t matter.”

Dean wanted to kick himself when he felt disappointed again. The feeling didn’t last very long, though— he was interrupted when Sam’s lips practically smashed into his, opening up easily under his own. Dean considered himself the king of holding back when he didn’t cram his tongue down Sam’s throat and slam him against the wall. This kiss lasted way longer than the others, and Dean’s hands had reached up (he couldn’t recall when) to hold either side of Sam’s face and tilt Sam’s face in just the right way, for easy access. 

Sam pulled away again and walked away, calling over his shoulder that he was going to get lunch and leaving Dean in an wet-lipped daze behind him, heart hammering as he stood there uncomprehendingly for several seconds. 

—

Dean was waiting for Sam when Sam got back. Sam thrust out a bag with an abominably greasy bottom. “Food,” he said cheerfully, “your brand of artery-clogging.”

Dean accepted the offering, sat down, and gestured for Sam to do the same. “I think we should talk,” he suggested nervously, and flapped his arm between them. “about this.”

Sam looked panicked, like Dean had just pulled a knife on him. His skin got several shades lighter almost instantly. “Oh god,” he choked out, “I’m so sorry Dean, I didn’t mean to force you into this, shit, I just-“

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean cut him off. "Calm down. You didn’t force me to do anything. If we’re blaming someone, it was that witch, no doubt about it, okay? And, uh…" he scratched his neck. "I like it, okay? And I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that you do too. And who cares? Who gives a shit? If it makes you happy, then by all means."

Sam leaned forward, then froze, uncertain. “Does it make you happy?”

"What?"

"You said if it made me happy, it was okay," Sam rushed on, "and it does. Okay? Coming clean here. But if you’re just doing this because you have to, or, oh god, you’re doing it for me, then stop. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to,"

"You’re fucking stupid," Dean chuckled lovingly, "I just told you I liked it."

"You’re not lying?" Sam asked quietly— hopefully.

"You’re starting to look a little feverish," Dean responded instead, and slid his body right up to Sam, placing his hands on the rise above Sam’s ass and pulling him closer. "I think I can fix that."

Sam rubbed his nose against Dean’s and tiled his head slightly. His lips brushed against Dean’s. “Oh god yes, please,” he begged breathlessly. 

Sam’s bottom lip was in his mouth in no time, and he hummed against Sam’s kiss, using his teeth to pull Sam’s lip further into his mouth. Sam’s arms slid around Dean’s neck and Sam kissed back messily, and desperately, Sam making little sounds intermittently. They broke apart for the briefest of moments, mostly just to breathe, and then Sam was right back in his space again, kissing Dean’s mouth open wider and pressing his tongue in.

Dean didn’t know how long they stood like that, pressed against each other. Every time they broke apart it was only a few millimeters and in no time at all they were kissing again, kiss number two morphing into three, then four, until they were indistinguishable.

Dean opened his eyes in puzzlement when he found Sam no longer there, and watched Sam back up, laughing openly in a carefree way Dean hadn’t seen in a long time. “You’ll probably be wanting this,” Sam said, blushing  _again_  (it just made Dean want to kiss him even more) and pulling a spellbook out from under his mattress.

Dean couldn’t contain his astonishment. “You  _bastard_ ,” he spat out immediately, but it bubbled into a laugh, and soon they were both in a fit of hysterics, red-faced and grinning broadly. 

It wasn’t a surprise when Dean stepped back over to Sam and kissed him again, hands in Sam’s hair to anchor him there.

—

The counter-spell was easy— a couple bird feathers and weird seeds and blood from both of them placed into a bowl with a brief incantation uttered over it, and that was it. Dean had kissed Sam sloppily (and with lots of tongue) in celebration, and now they sat on the front step outside their motel room, thighs touching and enjoying the warm summer air. It was sundown, and this town was small, so they enjoyed the view down Main Street, cars passing by slowly every once in awhile as the crickets began to chirp. Dean could admit to himself easily that he was happy for the first time in most likely forever. He looped an arm around Sam’s shoulder and took a sip of his beer, memorizing every detail of the moment so he’d never lose it.

"There’s something else I should probably tell you," Sam mentioned, knocking knees with Dean.

"Mmm?" Dean murmured, eyes on the horizon. Both of them had been cast in gold by the setting sun, and every once in awhile a cool breeze fluttered through their hair.

"The witch— she didn’t say I had to kiss you. She didn’t say your name. She just said it had to be my, uh, my true love, and I just knew. But I was afraid to tell you. I thought I was sick. But, then, all of this happened…" he cleared his throat and glanced at Dean, who calmly glanced back. "So."

Dean didn’t respond right away, and Sam was scared he had screwed something up, that this odd perfect balance they had reached had been messed up. His knee began to jiggle, a nervous habit, and he was started when Dean laid a hand softly upon his knee. Sam froze. Dean looked into his eyes, and smiled. 

"You gonna say anything? Confirm my deepest fears?" Sam questioned uneasily.

It was when Dean kissed him back, tenderly, as if he had all the time in the world, hands carding carefully through Sam’s hair, that Sam knew his answer.


End file.
